


Hard Promise

by dangerheels



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Asgard (Marvel), F/M, Flashback, Journey, Love & Loss, Niflheimr | Niflheim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 04:31:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dangerheels/pseuds/dangerheels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>He stood in the middle of a sea of broken concrete.  Smoke-covered buildings rose up like giant ghosts all around him.  Glass from broken windows littered the ground.  Upturned cars lay in piles as if they had been smashed together by a mighty force.  What few humans she could see were fleeing the scene screaming and crying or lying still on the ground.  The Thunderer, he stood in the middle of his ruined, beloved Midgard, and there was no understanding in his eyes.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>At his feet was Loki.</em>
</p><p>[Just a little one-shot Loki story set in an AU of the MCU.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hard Promise

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic and one of the few stories I've had the courage to let other people read. Needless to say, I'd love some feedback. Thanks for reading!

“Loki…” 

She stirred.  He had not wanted to wake her.  Turning, he saw her shift slowly towards him in bed.  Heavy eyes looked at him from under dark curls made loose from sleep.

“Going out again?”  Her voice was soft and flat.  Weary from waking, Loki assumed.  He’ll have to be quieter next time.

“I am,” he answered, and his voice echoed around the room.  He was already wearing his battle armor: a commanding mix of flowing green cloth and supple dark leather, and most impressive of all, a golden helmet with two large horns curving towards the ceiling.  It was an ensemble fit for the king of Asgard. 

But he wasn’t the king.

“When will you be back?”  Her eyes were more awake now.  He looked at her and then looked past her, his mind swirling with his many plans for the day.  There was so much he needed to get done.

“When I am finished,” he intoned, green eyes sharp but still not seeing her.  And turning on his heel, he left.

She watched him go for what seemed like the thousandth time.  He never looked back; he was always looking forward.  She was the one who did the looking back, it seemed.  Looking back to a time when they were young and still in love, when she was just a girl and he was just a boy, a boy trying to find his place in the world, like all boys.  Only this boy had found out that his place in the world was not what he had dreamed, that his loves and his life were nothing but curses, ruses.  He was not Asgardian, in a place that valued that more than anything.  Not a king.  Not even a true son.  And at this series of revelations, she, and everyone, had learned the full power of what a broken dream could do.

And so, as they had fled into self-inflicted exile away from condemning eyes, his schemes grew wild and vast, and his time with her diminished.  Soon he was leaving her every night.  Not for a secret tryst—she knew that was not what he thought he needed.Another woman’s warmth….  She snorted softly at the thought. _If only…_   He needed much more than that—the warmth of the whole world.

Would she turn toward the sky today?  Could she bear to view her love in battle, causing havoc?  Who was this man, dressed up in her husband’s guise, who wreaked such pain and sadness?

Wearily, she stepped forward to the balcony rail and turned her face towards an enchanted sky that reflected the conflicts of the mortal realm.  She wished she could dismiss the spell, but magic was Loki’s area, not hers.  And she knew that it was silly, that she could simply look elsewhere each day if she didn’t want to see anything.  But she couldn’t look away.  Not when she spied her husband in the sky walking on Midgardian soil, a mass of panic before him, a trail of destruction in his wake.

Dinner had grown cold when he arrived.  There was a flash of light in the gathering darkness, and then he was there sprawled on the floor, his regal clothes torn, his face bruised and bloodied.  His scepter spun away from him with a clatter.  He gasped and groaned, his head nearly touching the floor under the weight of his helmet.  “Uhhh….”

“Loki!” She ran to him and kneeled by his side.  Her eyes searched his face, his body, for wounds, even though they would heal on their own in little time.  She just wanted to touch him, to feel warmth rising from him again.  But there was no warmth, just like the last time she had searched, and the time before that.  A thousand times before.

“You need to stop this.”  Now it was her turn to be cold.

“Quiet,” was all he said.  He never raised his voice to her, but his words always seemed like shards of ice—sharp and biting at first, then a slow fade into numbness.  No matter how cold she was, he was always colder.

“You’re just hurting yourself.”  She steeled herself and searched for his eyes.  “You’re hurting me.”

His voice was even softer now, yet he didn’t look at her.  “After all I give you,” and he swept his uninjured arm around the expansive room, “after all I’ve done for you, you’re still not satisfied.” 

“What, what do you give me?” and now she was screaming.  “Gone all day and sometimes all night.  And when you’re here, you’re not _really here_ , Loki.”  She emphasized each word with barely concealed anger.  “And what you do on Midgard…”

His scowl deepened as he heaved himself up to his feet.  He regarded her now.

“You don’t understand.  I deserve to be—“

“You don’t deserve anything,” she interrupted fiercely.  And for the first time, he looked as if he would strike her, but still she set her jaw, her eyes boring furiously into his.  He returned her gaze, livid, but then suddenly something in his face started to shift, and his eyes began to flatten and the lights reflected in them began to dim.  It was a small change, one only she would notice.  He was withdrawing within himself once again, removing himself from anything he might have been feeling. 

“I don’t need you,” was all he said, and his voice was calm, emotionless.  His form started to flicker, and before she could respond, he was gone once more.

****

She hated her hair.  It got in her eyes when she fought and it lay heavily on her back in the summer heat.  Even though she often had it tied up, it always seemed to unravel at the worst possible moment.  Just an hour earlier bits of her golden hair had fallen into her eyes, and the brief moment she took to swat it away had given Thor the opportunity to land a lucky punch on her chin.  She _hated_ when he bested her.  And now her jaw would hurt for days.

She wanted to cut her hair.  But no, Mother wouldn’t like it.  “Asgardian hair was the envy of all of the nine realms,” her mother had once told her enthusiastically, and “the longer it was, the more it showed off its beauty.”  But the girl wasn’t like other Asgardians.  She didn’t care whether or not her hair “fell to her waist like a curtain of sun-kissed wheat,” or if it looked like “golden honey” or smelled like apricots, or _whatever_ it was.  All she cared about was proving her worth on the sparring room floor.

Lost in thought, the girl placed her head on her chin and immediately regretted it as pain shot up around her bruised jaw _.  That’s it_ , she thought angrily.  She was getting rid of her hair and no one could stop her. 

Swiping one of her mother’s sewing scissors had been easy.  But where to do it?  After a moment’s pause, she swiftly began to make her way to the training grounds located just behind the All-father’s palace.  The last training area butted up against a large lake that contained some of the stillest, most pleasant water in all of Asgard.   She, Thor, and the other trainees frequently bathed there after their summer fighting lessons.  No one would be there now. 

She walked up to the edge of the lake.  Her fair-haired reflection stared back at her.  The night before, her mother had spent over an hour weaving ribbons into her hair—soft blue ones that matched the color of her eyes.  The scissors felt oddly heavy as she raised them up to her face, and for a moment, she hesitated.

“What are you doing?  Are you cutting your hair off?” an incredulous voice asked.

She jumped and whipped around.  The king’s slight, dark-haired son was stepping silently out from behind a nearby tree.

“Loki!  You startled me!  I almost took my neck off!”

“With scissors?  _Pssht._   You wouldn’t be strong enough,” Loki said, a small, impish smile on his face.  

She glared at him as he approached.  “ _Hmph._   I’m strong enough to pin _you_ to the ground, and you’re a boy.”

“Not if I used magic.”

“That would be cheating,” she replied haughtily.  Purposely not answering his initial question, she turned back to her reflection.  He was silent as he watched her turn this way and that, trying to find the best place to start cutting.  Then he held out his hand.

“Here, let me do it.  You’re likely to make a mess of things, especially if you’re worried about taking your own head off.”

“I’m not worried!” she snapped but she let him take the scissors.

“Calm down,” he replied as he gathered her hair in his hand.  “I was joking.” 

His hand lightly brushed the back of her neck, and she tried not to jump at the phantom touch.  The shears started clipping.  She realized that she hadn’t told him how much to cut, but he seemed to know how much she wanted.  Silence stretched between them; only the sound of the clicking shears could be heard.  Finally, she spoke:

 “Sorry.  It’s just, you don’t joke that often.  _Tell_ jokes, I mean.  I’m not used to it.”

More silence.  She started to feel a subtle lightness around her head.  It was a strange feeling.  He brushed freshly cut strands from her shoulders, and she thought she heard him sigh.  “People don’t find me funny,” he murmured.

She didn’t know what to say.  Tricks and mischievousness did seem to follow Loki wherever he went.  And it was true, not everyone deigned to find them amusing, even if to her, they appeared innocent—the harmless tomfooleries that boys did at his age.  But then again, she had never been on the receiving end of one of his pranks.  She looked across the lake to the smattering of trees on the other side.

“I thought it was funny when you enchanted Volstagg’s cat so that it floated in the air, and when it got so high Volstagg had to ask the All-father to get it down.  Thor teased him about it for _days_.”  She smirked at the memory.

“You found it funny?” he asked, his tone lighter.  “I did think it appropriate.  Its name was Owl after all.  Who names their cat _Owl_ , anyways?”  She could feel him smile behind her, his breath light on the back of her newly exposed neck.  A child at her school had once remarked that Loki’s smile was creepy, but she never thought it was.  To her he just looked happy, and to see Loki happy was a rare thing.  Maybe that was why people found something as simple as a smile so unsettling.

The shears stopped suddenly and Loki drew another intake of breath, this time sharp.

“What’s the matter?”  She turned to him and his eyes were wide as he stared at her hairline.  He looked frightened, not an expression she was used to seeing on him.

“I…I’m sorry…” he gasped finally, and dropping the shears, he ran.  Her head whipped towards her reflection.  Black.  Her golden blond hair, now chin length, had turned black.  She stared at the image, aghast.  What was this, another one of his tricks?  But he never tricked her.  What would her mother say, her father?  Her friends?  What would Thor say?

“LOKI!!!” she screamed.

She spent the rest of the day furiously searching for the little runt, the little runt who was _so_ _dead_ , but he was nowhere to be found.  Finally, she trudged back home and braced herself for the inevitable.  Her father had only been mildly baffled at her hair, but her mother (who had done most of the talking, or rather, yelling) had been livid.  First she had wanted to be trained in combat at the palace and now this!  Her mother’s worst fears had been realized: Her daughter was turning into a boy.  By the time her mother let her back out of the house, three days had passed.  Yet the time alone had mellowed the girl’s anger, and just when she had stopped looking for the boy whose hair now matched her own, he was there.

“I didn’t do it.”

_Splish.  Splish.  Splish.  Sploosh._

The rock she had skipped across the surface of the lake disappeared into its depths.  She picked up another one then looked over her shoulder.  He stood farther away from her this time.  She tested the weight of the stone in her hand.

“I know.  Apparently my mother used a spell on my hair when I was a baby to make it grow all lovely like it did.”  She made a face.  “Cutting my hair broke the spell and cursed my hair.  Wish someone would’ve mentioned this fine little detail to me sooner,” she muttered and then sighed.  She readied the stone in her hand then let it fly.

_Splish.  Splish.  Splish.  Sploosh!_

“I-I’m sorry.”  He was closer now.  It didn’t get past her that he had said he was sorry more times in four days than she had ever heard him say to anyone, even to Frigga.

“It’s okay.  It’s just hair.  But it’s more to Mother.  She is very angry with me for wanting it cut in the first place.  She’s not allowing me to go to fighting practice with Thor.”   Her voice was empty; she was done crying over it.  “And I know there’s no spell to turn my hair back.  Mother already asked the All-father about it.” 

His eyebrows drew together slightly, and he looked down at the ground.  Then, quietly:

“I may have something that will help.”

He reached into his tunic and brought his hand out again.  There, clenched tightly, was a large mess of dark hair, looped around and around his hand like a rope.

“It’s dwarven,” Loki said, holding the hair up.  He almost sounded proud.  “Magical.”

“ _Dwarven_?  Where’d you get _that_?” she asked, staring at the foreign thing in amazement.

“Here, turn around,” was his reply, and she was still too baffled to realize he hadn’t answered her question.  Obediently, she turned so that her back was to him.  She felt light touches on her shoulders and upper back. 

 “Is it safe?”  The tentative words escaped her mouth before she could stop them.

“Of course,” he whispered into her neck.  “I made sure.”  He started to mutter rapidly, words she couldn’t understand, and her heart rate picked up.  She had no idea what he was doing.  Suddenly, there was a flash of light from behind her, and out of the corners of her eyes, she could see dark strands of hair falling around her shoulders and past her waist.   Automatically, she reached up to touch them and then marveled at their softness.  Nothing seemed out of the ordinary; the counterfeit hair blended perfectly into her hairline.  Loki had done it.  Her hair was long again.  He turned her shoulders so that she faced him.  He observed her, looking pleased, then his face broke into a frown.  He fingered a black, wavy lock of her hair.

“It was supposed to turn back to blond!”  He glared at the hair angrily then threw clenched fists into the air.  “They _tricked_ me!”

There was an edge to his voice that she didn’t like.  She reached out and touched his arm.  “It’s okay.  It’ll do.”  Her hair may not be blond, but it was long and lovely once more; surely, her mother would let her practice fighting again soon.  “My mom just needs to get over the color.”

The glare in his eyes seemed to dim.  There was more silence, but it was a comfortable one, like all silences were between them.

“I like your hair,” Loki said finally, almost to himself.  “You don’t look like everyone else now.”

She surveyed him, taking in his pale skin, green eyes, and dark hair.  Her eyes, too, were light, and her skin pale, and now her hair…

“It’s like we’re brother and sister!” she said, and she found that she was laughing.

“Don’t say _that_!” Loki replied, nose crinkling in disgust.

Swiftly, her mood changed.  “What?  You wouldn’t want me as a sister?” she retorted angrily.

“No,” Loki replied and that playful smile was on his face again.  “One brother is enough.”

At this, she couldn’t help but smile back.  Thor _could_ be a handful sometimes.  And, admittedly, so could she.  Asgardians were fiery by nature—“First to the fight and to the revelry afterwards,” her father often said, a beer stein tucked firmly in hand.  She looked at the boy standing in front of her.  This dark-haired son of a fair-haired king somehow navigated his way through it all, unashamed at his preference for books over swords and tricks over face-to-face confrontations.  It was no wonder that Loki was looked at differently for more than just his appearance.

But there was merit in his studiousness for his knowledge of magic seemed to grow every day.  Now she noticed the scratches on his face and hands.  What had he told her once?  That magic could be treacherous, and sometimes personal sacrifices had to be made for the magic to work properly.  She wondered what he had done, or given up, to obtain this beautiful, enchanted hair for her.

She fingered the long strands around her face.  “Thank you,” she said softly.

The sly smile disappeared.  Saying nothing, he continued to look at her, his face unreadable.

Her brow furrowed.  “What?” she asked irritably.

There it was again: the ghost of a smile.  “Nothing,” he said after a moment.  “You are welcome.” 

Suddenly, a wild wind began to blow around him, then around her, whipping her dark hair about her face.  Startled, she looked around, and then her eyes fell back on Loki who hadn’t moved.  He simply stood there watching her, his bright green eyes impassive.  He was so different from her, she found herself musing, for it was well known around the kingdom that every emotion she felt showed on her face.  Normally his mysteriousness would annoy her, but somehow, it didn’t right now.  For the first time, she noticed that there was something lurking behind those eyes.  It intrigued her.  What was it?  Would she ever know?  Would anyone?  Questions raced through her mind, and for a moment all she could do was look at Loki as he looked back at her, the wind swirling around their bodies like the breath from a dragon. 

And just like that, the wind began to die.  Slowly, her hair settled back onto her shoulders.  She peered at him curiously.  Had he done that, the wind?  Green eyes blinked at her, breaking the stare, and abruptly he was gone.  No dramatic smoke or flashes of light, no wind.  She stared at the spot he had been moments before.  Then she grinned.

“Show off.”

****

 _How annoying_ , she thought as she opened her eyes.  These stupid, sappy memories.  Even her dreams wouldn’t let her forget them.  If only she would’ve known back then what she knew now.  She had been so young, so imprudent.  Yet so fierce.  Maybe he wasn’t the only one who had changed.

It was not until the sky blazed with reds and golds did she risk a glance at it the next day.  She had been so angry about the night before, and her memory-filled dreams that night hadn’t help improve her mood.  The sky above her window flicked from image to image showing nothing out of the ordinary.  So far, everything on the mortal realm was quiet.  Her own day had gone by in a similar crawl, and before long she realized she had been sinking just as slowly into a dark place.  He would return, she knew he would.  They had had fights just as fiery before.  He would be gone for a few days and then would come back as if nothing had happened.  But this time, she didn’t know if she wanted him to come back.

She had been a warrior once.  Now what was she?  A ghostly shell of herself, reduced to roaming the halls of their empty palace alone as she rotted away in inaction.  She stopped her mindless stroll in the middle of a long hallway.  Large open windows that stretched from floor to ceiling allowed white, airy curtains to catch the wind blown up from the chasm below.  She walked to a window and looked out.  Before her stretched all the glory of Asgard.  The rocky cliffs that cradled their secret palace gave way to a dense forest.  Off in the distance, she could just make out the golden spires of Odin’s city stretching high above the tree line.  It was a beautiful view, but purposeful, too.  She knew it pleased Loki to be hiding right under Odin’s nose.  She drew her robe around her tightly.  With a fast horse, she could make it back to the City of Asgard in a day.

…Where she would likely be arrested and imprisoned, given the fact that she had sided with a fugitive.  But what difference would that make?  She was already in prison.

Finally, her thoughts settled.  She stepped away from the window and began walking again, her footsteps echoing lightly back down the hall.  Through each open window, the red sky above followed her as she passed from room to room, and even though she noticed movement in it out of the corner of her eye, she didn’t turn to look.

She reached their bedroom.  In one corner loomed their large canopied bed.  It was empty.  With a small sigh, she walked to a writing desk that stood in front of the open balcony.  Grabbing a sheet of parchment and an ink pen, she sat down and began to write.

The words had been few at first and painful, for they just did not want to come.  But they came eventually, and in the golden light of the sunset, she looked over what she had written.

_Dear Loki,_

_Do you remember when we were married, we stood with our hands clasped in front of all of Asgard, and we swore that our love would be like our hands—forever joined together, bound so tightly that the goddess of death herself could not pry us apart.  All these years, I have done my best to keep that promise alive.  All these years, I have fallen in love with you again and again as I clung desperately to memories, refusing to believe that you had changed.  Suddenly, I can see everything that I have ignored for so long.  This love I have for you, it is a horrible thing to live with.  I know that it will never in this lifetime be returned.  You have no place for me in your heart.  All that exists there is hatred and destruction.  I now know that I have to break my promise._

Her head snapped up suddenly.  _No_ , she thought.  He didn’t deserve such a heartfelt explanation.  Reaching for another piece of parchment, she started anew.

_My love, it is simple: I cannot bear to be with you anymore._

_Tonight I am leaving.  When you arrive home, I will be gone._

_I never want to—_

For a second time, she stopped reading.  She rose.  Something in the sky had finally caught her eye. 

_Thor._

He stood in the middle of a sea of broken concrete.  Smoke-covered buildings rose up like giant ghosts all around him.  Glass from broken windows littered the ground.  Upturned cars lay in piles as if they had been smashed together by a mighty force.  What few humans she could see were fleeing the scene screaming and crying or lying still on the ground.  The Thunderer, he stood in the middle of his ruined, beloved Midgard, and there was no understanding in his eyes.

At his feet was Loki. 

He lay sprawled on his hands and knees, battered and gasping, just like she had seen him the night before. 

“This is it, brother…  This is the end,” Thor said, and there was a strangeness to his voice that frightened her.  She had never heard it sound so cold before. 

Loki’s helmet slipped from his bowed head and fell to the ground with a clatter.  “What are you going to do, brother,” he sneered, “kill me?”  He laughed, blood dripping from his mouth and onto his helmet.  “We both know you can’t do that.  You’ll have to get one of your little friends to do it for you.  _If_ they can.”  He laughed again and spat blood at Thor’s feet.  At this, she suddenly noticed movement at the edge of the vision: a man-shaped iron suit of red and gold hovered a few feet off of the ground.  Behind him, shifting impatiently, was a giant, green monster, watching, waiting; clearly annoyed at having to stand down.  There were others standing amid them as well: humans, with weapons trained on the two gods in the middle of the street.  Thor’s new allies.  Midgardians, as adamant about avenging their home as Loki was to destroy it.  Her husband had learned this the day before.

“I mean it, Loki,” Thor was saying, his knuckles white as he gripped Mjolnir.  “I will do what I must.”  Loki continued to laugh, a wrenching, unpleasant sound.

The Thunder god stood silent for a few seconds, then with a motion as swift as a snake, he reared back and brought Mjolnir down upon Loki’s helmet, inches from Loki’s head.  Mjolnir, the weapon that could kill a Frost Giant with one well-placed blow, turned the golden helmet into dust.  A world away, she had jumped and screamed in shock.  But Loki had barely flinched.

“You can’t do it,” he repeated, voice low.  He wasn’t laughing now, but his mouth curled faintly upwards in mocking satisfaction.

“Stop this, stop this madness,” Thor hissed through gritted teeth, and there was a hint of desperation in his voice now.

“No,” said Loki, and as he looked at his brother his expression was so terrible that the breath caught in her throat.  “No,” he said again.  “I won’t stop.  I won’t stop until all that you love, all that you have known is gone.  _Your_ mother… _your_ father…  I’ll kill them in front of you.  I’ll make you watch,” he continued, his voice softer now but gripped with an abhorrent zeal.  “This world will burn.  And the mortal Jane Foster, I’ll save her for the _very last_ —“

The Thunderer gave a strangled cry and swung Moljnir high in the air.  And brought it down, right in the middle of Loki’s chest.  The street shook with the impact.  She shrieked and her hand flew to cover her mouth as Thor, his eyes wild, swung at Loki again and again.  He didn’t stop, even as Loki’s eyes widened with shock and pain, even as the blood that had dripped from his mouth became a stream… even as the color of his clothes slowly changed from green to a dull, dark red.

“No…”

She had witnessed close calls before.  But Loki was so powerful, so clever, he would always find a way out.  He’d eventually arrive home in some form or another, and she could breathe again.

“No!!  Not like this!”

And as if Thor had heard her cry out, he stopped.  Moljnir fell from his trembling hands and landed at his side with a sound that reverberated around the empty street.  Thor looked down at his brother.  Loki’s form was still, eyes closed.  He was dead.

“Noooo!!” she screamed, and Thor echoed her cry and did what she could not: fall to his knees and pick up Loki’s body.  Clutching the lifeless figure close to his chest, Thor wept as if the strength of his tears could reverse what he had done.

The letter slipped from her hand and hit the floor.

_My love, it is simple: I cannot bear to be with you anymore._

With four steps, she was at the balcony edge.

_Tonight I am leaving.  When you arrive home, I will be gone._

The sky above blazed like fire.  Thor howled and wept.

_I never want to see you again._

She climbed onto the railing and opened her arms wide.

_Goodbye._

And in her mind she was falling, down, down, like the letter.  Down into blackness, into stillness, away from her hopelessness, away from her pain. 

But the pain continued, pulsing like a knife in her chest. 

She hadn’t stepped off the rail. 

Slowly, she lowered her outstretched arms.  _No_ , she thought firmly, shoulders heaving with each breath.  This was not her way.  With all her might, she stepped back down to the balcony floor.  Above her, the brilliant colors of the sunset were slowly fading into a dark blue, but the image reflected in the sky still remained.  She turned away. 

****

“Halt, intruder!”

 _Spotted already?_ she marveled to herself as she ran past ornate golden columns.  She was rusty.  The guard’s metal boots clanked after her, but she was fast and angry and she knew exactly where she wanted to go.  Quickly, she turned a corner and almost ran right into a bevy of guards who blocked her path, but her muscles tensed and an instant later, she was flipping over their heads.  She landed lightly and continued running, ignoring the shouts of confusion behind her.  All those times she had explored the palace with Thor and Loki as children were serving her well now: her destination was right up ahead.

Even though they saw her coming, the two guards stationed on either side of the throne room were no match for her; they were unconscious before they hit the floor.  She grabbed the door handles and heaved.  The heavy wooden doors creaked open.  She rushed inside.

And was immediately expelled right back into the hallway by a two-footed blow to her midsection.  She leapt back to her feet.  Standing before her was a man who looked like the very opposite of a palace guard.   He wore no armor, and his green tunic was split open to the navel to boldly reveal a muscular chest and stomach.  He must have been hiding above the door frame waiting for her to enter.

“I’m sorry to have to do this to you,” his said in a soft musical voice that she remembered well.  He raised his sword towards her as he slowly came forward.

“Don’t, Fandral.”  There was no pretense in her voice.  “I don’t want to have to hurt you.”

And indeed, he stopped advancing.  The clanking grew louder, and as the guards clattered into place behind her, she wondered wildly if she should try to take Fandral as a hostage.

Then a voice rang out from the throne room, cutting through all thoughts and sounds:

“Stop.  Let her approach.”

The guards froze and then settled, jostled armor falling back into place.  Without a word, she strode past Fandral and towards the figure sitting on the throne at the far end of the hall.  As she approached, the other Warriors Three who had been standing close to the dais focused their weapons on her warily, but she ignored them.

“Where is he?” she demanded, and then she found herself kneeling under the strength of the King of Asgard’s gaze.  “Where is he, All-father?” she repeated, quietly this time, head bowed.  Odin regarded her for a moment before replying.

“He is in Niflheim.  It is what he deserves,” the All-father said softly.

Something lurched inside her chest.  From the tales of her youth, she knew that Niflheim was a horrible, hopeless place full of ravenous beasts and obscene tortures.  It was where souls who were unworthy of the eternal glory and peace of Valhalla were sent.

She clenched her fists and glowered at the All-father, her voice rising as her tears fell.  “There was still good in him!  How could you not see it?  You are his father!  You raised him!  He may not have been blood, but he was still _yours_!”  She didn’t care that Fandral, who had joined the other Warriors, and Frigga, who stood behind the All-father’s throne, now stared at her, mouths agape.

“Yes,” said Odin, as Frigga turned abruptly to face the back of the chamber, hands to her face.  “And I blame myself.  But what are words to ears deafened by such a thing as powerful as hate?  A heart can only take so much defeat.  Even you were planning on leaving him.”

She glanced up now, noticing for the first time the twin crows that perched silently in the room’s rafters, observing everything.  The All-father’s eyes were everywhere, and yet, she thought, they saw nothing.  She realized now how she had failed Loki.  How they all had failed him.  She turned her gaze fiercely back to the King of Asgard.

“I will go to him,” she said, and even though her body trembled at the thought, her heart and her voice were firm.

The All-father considered her, his one uncovered eye betraying nothing of what he was thinking.  Finally he said simply, “You may not return.”

Her voice rang out into the room.  “Then maybe that is what I deserve.”

Both Frigga and the All-father were looking at her now, Odin unreadable, Frigga in disbelief.  Finally Odin sighed.

“I will bring you to the gates of Niflheim, but I do not guarantee a safe return.  You will have to find your own way back, if such a way even exists.”

She nodded solemnly.

Odin raised his right hand and light began to swirl around it.  Moments later, a dagger appeared there.

“Take this.  May it be a small light in the darkness.   Wield it willfully and do what you must.”

She grasped the weapon.  It was as long as the length between her hand and her elbow, and its blade shone as brightly as the delicate jewels in its gold hilt.  Dully, she wondered what such as small weapon could do against the demons of Niflheim but she took it.

Odin rose.  There was another flash as light began to envelope both their forms.  It filled her vision.  The last things she saw were the eyes of Frigga and the Warriors Three gazing somberly at her.  “Goodbye,” she whispered at them as she and Odin began to disappear.  She knew they couldn’t hear.

An instant later, darkness filled her sight: the eternal gloom of Niflheim, the realm of the damned.  She blinked spots out of her eyes and looked around.  She had never seen such an abysmal place.  Before her stretched a dark wasteland.  The ground under her feet was black and dead.  There were no plants or trees; however dotted here and there were decaying brambles that snagged her clothing as she passed.  Even the sky above was filled with murky gray clouds.  The only source of light was the horizon: it burned with color, looking like a fiery storm of red, black, and gold.  It was an ominous sight and for a moment, she stared at it transfixed.

“The only way in is through the gates.”  Odin’s voice drew her from her trance.  He was pointing to large wrought iron gates that loomed several feet ahead.  From where she stood, she could see that they were slightly ajar.  She had been too distracted by the fiery horizon to notice them at first.  They seemed an odd sight, standing alone in the middle of this dark desert, with no wall or other barricade around to warrant their need.  Surely, one could just walk around them.

“Through the gates,” Odin repeated, as if sensing her doubt.  He started to turn and walk away, but then stopped.  Once more, he fixed her with an expressionless one-eyed gaze.  Such was the All-father: Readable only when he wanted to be.  _Just like his son_ , she thought and a pang went through her chest.  She tightened the grip on the dagger in her hand.

“Good luck,” Odin said quietly to her.  His expression softened as he began to fade, and for a moment, she thought she saw a glimpse of the man she had often regarded as a second father.  “May Hela take pity on your soul.”

And with that, he was gone.  Her breath started to quicken.  All around her stretched a quiet, eerie nothingness.  She had never felt so alone.  Even the time she had spent by herself in Loki’s palace had not felt so horribly forsaken.  _Loki…_   Her thoughts snapped into focus and she forced her nervous feelings aside, just like she had done before many a battle in times past.  She started to walk towards the gates.  No matter where she stepped, her clothes snagged on brambles that seemed to reach out to her like claws.  She wished she had taken the time to put on breeches instead of a dress, but she had been in such a hurry to get to Asgard after what she had witnessed...

Now the gates stood in front of her.  Without hesitation, she stepped through.  Her jaw dropped open.  The sight that reached her eyes had not existed on the other side of the gate.  The land that lay before her was still dark, but it was empty no longer.  It was as if someone had taken all of Asgard’s beauty and imprisoned it in a perpetual winter.  What passed for a forest lay immediately in front of her, but because the trees were dry and devoid of leaves, she could see right through them to the gleaming black building that rose up on the other side.  What had been Odin’s palace in the light world was here a dark doppelganger, no doubt where Hela, goddess of death and the dark queen of this underworld, ruled over the millions of souls that had been doomed to this wretched afterlife.  Doomed for the crimes they had committed while living—the horrors, the killing, the destruction.  It was what they deserved.  “What _he_ deserved,” Odin had said.  The thought seemed to echo in her mind.

Involuntarily, she shuddered.  Her line of sight had followed the black spires upwards until they touched a sky that looked like it was on fire, with tendrils of light blazing across the dark ether.   The fiery storm that had, moments ago, been a horizon away was now right in front of her, consuming her vision, filling her with dread.  Once again, her thoughts scattered.  The alarming sky above, Hela’s dark palace, the bleakness around her, Loki…  Her emotions were like a wild steed that bucked and kicked beneath her skin and in her chest.  She couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t calm her rapid breaths.  She gritted her teeth and clutched at the sides of her head as she fought to control the urge to collapse onto the ground in a terrified heap.  This was worth more to her than any battle she had fought before.  More than anything she had _done_ before.  She couldn’t stand here trembling like a lost child.  Not when hope still existed somewhere in this nightmarish land.  She would find it.  She would find _him_.

In one fluid motion, she threw the golden dagger into the trunk of the nearest tree, right on the narrow spot where she had wanted it to go.  The tension she was feeling ebbed.

She wouldn’t let this place control her.  She wouldn’t let her emotions control her.  She would do what she needed to do.

Her eyes swept over the land once more, and this time, it did not petrify her.  Where would he be?  Somewhere in the bowels of Hela’s palace, trapped in a labyrinth filled with deadly impediments?  Transformed into a dark beast or ghastly apparition?  What would please Hela most?

There was a place where the burning sky did not reach: the edge of the forest that was opposite the palace and diagonally across from where she stood.  As her eyes adjusted to the darkness there, she spied the knotted fibers of a mighty tree root that reached upwards from the ground to disappear into the gray, cloud-covered sky.  She recognized it immediately: Yggdrasil, the world-tree.  Its expansive branches cradled the nine realms, and its three colossal roots sprang far and wide, the oldest being the one before her.  Somehow, as she gazed upon a sight she never thought she’d see, she knew that this was where she needed to go.

She took a step forward.

“Not that way.”

As the unfamiliar female voice broke the silence, she froze.  Three women were stepping slowly around the large, gnarled trunk of the tree that now held her dagger.  She hadn’t seen or heard them approach, but that thought quickly disappeared from her mind as she surveyed them.

They were beautiful.  All three had pale skin that seemed to shine softly as if lit from within.  Their clothing was similar to hers: Asgardian gowns made of several layers of meticulously dyed silk.  But while her dress was dingy and torn, theirs were clean and luxurious, appearing to float wistfully away from their bodies as if blown by a slight breeze.   Side by side, the three inched closer, moving gracefully like large cats.  The one on the right wore an emerald green dress that amplified the redness in her hair.  She had a smattering of freckles across her delicate nose and sweet cupid’s bow lips that were a pale pink in color.  The one on the left was a dark brunette whose hair fell to her waist in soft, shiny waves.  Her dress matched her eyes:  a rich blue the color of sapphires.  But it was the one in the middle that was really striking: Her hair was blond and her bright eyes were rimmed with long, dark eyelashes.  She had a smoldering gaze that matched the deep red in her dress and the flaming sky that rose up around Hela’s palace behind her.

“That way is only darkness,” she said huskily, pointing towards Yggdrasil.  “Come this way, towards the light.”

Loki’s wife felt rooted to the ground.  It almost hurt to look at these women, they were so beautiful.  Dully, she shook her head.  She hadn’t wanted to go towards Hela’s palace, had she?  “I… I do not want to go that way,” she said finally, her eyebrows furrowed.

“How do you know?” questioned the redhead, her voice airy and sweet.

“What you seek, it is this way,” the brunette chimed in with a warm smile.

“Come closer,” beckoned the blonde in the red dress.  “Come towards us, warrior, and we will give you what you desire.”

 _What you desire…_ What did she desire?  And why did they call her warrior?  A breeze rustled her dark hair, filling her nose with one of her favorite aromas: the sharp, fresh smell of an oncoming storm that often reminded her of the scent that accompanied Loki’s magic.

But wait… who was Loki?  She knew naught, but it didn’t matter anyways.  All she cared about were the three women in front of her.  They had stopped their slow approach.  They wanted her to come to them.  And come she would.  Her feet began to move and her breath became ragged once more.   She had to touch them, to be near them.  Nothing else mattered.  They were looking at her with wide, mesmerizing smiles.  Moonlight seemed to play on the exposed skin of their faces, arms, and chests.  Their eyes were like bottomless pools of crystalline water.  She could fall into them, be lost for days, years, forever.  And here with them, she would be happy.  The greatest happiness she’d ever know.

Now she stood mere feet from them.  Behind them, the light from Hela’s palace cast a radiant glow on the middle woman’s hair, making it look like spun gold, soft and silky.  Beautiful, like sun-kissed wheat…

_Asgardian hair… like sun-kissed wheat…the envy of all of the nine realms._

With her hand inches from the blond woman’s face, she paused.

Something flickered in her fog-filled mind.

_What was it?_

An image…  Her brow wrinkled and she squinted her eyes, willing the image to come into view.

_A pair of scissors, held by a boy with light eyes and dark hair that mirrored her own._

Her eyes _opened_.  Though her mind reeled with anger and confusion, she did not let it show.  Instead, the warrior within her acted.  Her hand shot between the women’s heads and grasped the hilt of the dagger embedded in the tree directly behind them.  Without pause, the dagger found a new home: deep into the neck of the women in red.  The scream that split the air was terrible, inhuman and shrill.  Blood as black as the ground gushed from the woman’s neck and onto her red dress.

The spell was broken.  Before her, the beautiful women were transforming.  Pale skin was turning gray and mottled.  Bright eyes changed to a demonic red, while lovely mouths twisted into cruel, fanged snarls.  Their dresses disappeared, and the glowing locks of hair on their heads fell away to reveal harshly pointed ears.  Long black claws sprouted from their bare fingertips and toes.  And then, with a loud ripping sound, gray bat-like wings sprang from each of their backs and forcefully beat the air.

She recognized them instantly.  _Harpies!_

The two creatures that were not wounded launched into the air with ear-piercing shrieks.  The harpy at the end of her dagger whipped its clawed hands around itself frantically, and she winced as the talons found her face and arms.  With the pain fueling her adrenaline, she gripped the dagger tighter and dragged it across the harpy’s neck with all her might.  The creature made a horrible gurgling sound as the dagger cut through its trachea.  She pulled the dagger out and a torrent of blood spilled onto the front of her dress.  The harpy fell to the ground.  It would not get up again.

“WITCH!!!”

She hadn’t even had a moment to catch her breath before one of the remaining harpies was swooping down at her, screaming wildly.  She ducked just in time and then steadied her feet as it circled around for another pass.  When it came near she was ready for it, but it dodged every stab attempt with unnerving speed.   Before she knew it, the harpy had a handful of her hair in its powerful grasp.  She yelled as it began to pull her into the air.

 _“We will kill you!”_ screeched the creature into her ear.  Its claws dug deep into her scalp and the tendons in her neck strained as it dragged her higher.  She struggled, kicking at it with her feet but she couldn’t reach it.   Desperately, she tried the dagger again, slicing a shallow gash into the harpy’s left forearm.  The creature screamed but it didn’t slow: It raked her back with its clawed feet and then began to shake her violently.   Pain stabbed at her neck and scalp, and she gasped as she fought to keep hold on the dagger and her consciousness.

It was no use.  Odin’s dagger was too small a weapon to give her the aid she needed.  As the other harpy narrowed the gap between them, wings beating powerfully and its claws extended towards her, she knew there was only one thing she could do: cut through her hair—the enchanted hair that Loki had risked his young life to give to her so many years ago.

The dagger felt heavy in her hand.  She raised it up to her face.

The blade glimmered as it caught the light from Hela’s burning sky.  The glimmer grew, running down the length of the blade, and suddenly, the tiny blade began to lengthen.  Before her astonished eyes, the blade grew to three times its length and the hilt filled out in her hand.  With no time to think, she swung the weapon, now a proper sword, at the harpy above her.  It sliced through the creature’s neck, as easily as a knife through butter.

Her stomach leapt into her throat as she began to fall, but as she neared the ground, she launched into a forward tuck that allowed her to roll to safety, sword still in hand.  The lifeless harpy body landed on the ground next to her in a mangled heap.  She jumped up and reached out with her left hand to pick up the severed head by one of its pointy ears.  As blood from it pooled at her feet, she raised the head and the blade aloft.  The remaining harpy was hovering in the air above her, shrieking and crying over its lost companions.  Surely, all of Niflheim could hear it.  _Good_ , she thought grimly.  She let her voice ring out.

“Stay back, foul demon, lest you desire to taste my blade like the others!”

The harpy bared filthy teeth and hissed.

“You’re dead, Asgardian!  DEAD!” the creature screamed at her crazily.  “Hela will come for you _herself_!”

She didn’t move.  Fear didn’t race up her spine.  Her knees didn’t buckle.  Sticky, black blood was running down her raised left hand to mix with the blood from her own injuries, but she didn’t care.  “Let her come,” she replied, her voice low and fierce.  “Let _all_ come.”

With a final ear-splitting screech, the harpy turned in midair and fled, flying rapidly towards Hela’s palace.  She watched it go.  When she couldn’t see it anymore, she lowered her arms.  The bloody harpy head dropped to the ground.

As the land around her became silent once more, the adrenalin she had felt throughout the battle waned.  The pain from her wounds intensified, but after a quick inspection, she found that none of her injuries were life-threatening.  Gratefully, she sighed.  Her attention turned to the weapon she held in her right hand.

Even though it was stained with blood, it was a beautiful sword with a weight that felt perfect in her hand.  When she had needed it most, the enchanted weapon had revealed itself to her.  She shouldn’t have doubted the All-father’s gift.  Lightly, she pressed her lips to the hilt just below the blade.  “Thank you, All-father,” she whispered.

_Now to find your son._

With the blade held at the ready in front of her, she started towards Yggdrasil once more.  She moved swiftly through the dead trees, her eyes darting around warily, but she saw nothing.  The decayed underbrush began to thicken, and she had to slow as her dress started to snag on sharp brambles again.  She gritted her teeth angrily.  She didn’t have time for this!  Quickly, she bent over and hacked through her dress, cutting it off at knee-level in a series of succinct slashes.

“Help, is anyone there?”

Slowly, her head rose.  The voice had sounded young and plaintive… and directly on the other side of the dense foliage in front of her.  _What now?_   She steeled herself, her lips pressed together tightly, and then she threw her sword-arm forward.  Odin’s weapon cleared a path for her with ease.  She stepped through.

She found herself in a large clearing.  Yggdrasil’s mighty tree root was nearer now, rising up just beyond the trees on the other side.  All she had to do was walk straight through the clearing.  But there was something in the middle of the clearing blocking her path.

It was a large stone table.  As she neared it, she noticed that the table was so big, the top of it was in line with her eyes.  She could just make out a wonderfully smelling feast spread out along the table’s length: roasted turkeys and glazed hams; braised carrots, leeks, and onions; grilled potatoes cut into chunks; bowls of colorful fruit; pies with steam still wafting from their centers; wooden mugs which no doubt held chilled ale…

All of a sudden, she couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten. 

Mindlessly, she stepped forward then stopped herself.  _No_ , she thought firmly.  _It’s an illusion, just like before.  Go around._

She walked around the table, dragging her left hand along the table’s edge reluctantly as the feast’s mouth-watering aroma overwhelmed her nose.  It was horrible.  The food was so close.  All she had to do was reach out and she could touch it.

“Is someone there?”

 _That voice again._ She tore her attention from the food and peeked around the corner.  Her eyes fell on a child—a small, fair-haired boy who looked as bedraggled as she.  As she stepped around the table’s edge, his head turned towards her.  There was so much grime on his face that she could hardly see his features, except for his eyes which were a startling cerulean blue.  Beneath the large twin pools that stared up at her, two faint lines cleared their way through the grime to disappear past his chin.  He had been crying.  Her mind started to whirl again.  This was a horrible place for a child to be alone.

She found herself speaking.  “Can I help you?”

The child waited until she got close before answering.

“Yes,” he said in a voice that was shaky and subdued.  “I am hungry.”  His eyes traveled up to the top of the table that loomed several feet above his head.  “I can’t reach…”

Immediately, she stretched her hand above her and began blindly searching the tabletop.  She grasped the first thing she touched and brought it down between them.  It was firm and round and a bright red in color: a pomegranate—her favorite fruit.  As a child, the juicy, red seeds inside had often reminded her of little rubies, beautiful and precious.  When her father would split one of the fruits open for her, she’d pretend that she was a pirate and the spoils from the exotic fruit her treasure.  Something moved in her chest—a small explosion of happiness was spreading through her body at the thought of the memory.  The edges of her lips curled upwards in a faint smile.

“Here.”  Gently, she split the pomegranate open with her sword and handed a half to the boy.  He fell on it ravenously, plucking out the seeds in handfuls, swallowing several of them whole in his haste.  He would’ve tried to eat the skin if she hadn’t stopped him.

“Slow down,” she said soothingly.  “You’ll make yourself sick.”

With obvious effort, the boy slowed his voracious chewing.  “Don’t you want some?” he said between mouthfuls.

Her head felt light and relaxed, and it took her a moment to realize what he had said.  She looked down at the other half of the fruit she still held in her hand.  It was so red, so juicy-looking.  She couldn’t remember the last time she had tasted one.  Surely, a few seeds wouldn’t hurt anything.

She raised a seed to her lips.  The boy had stopped eating and was looking at her with his wide blue eyes.  She smiled at him gently.  Then her lips parted, and she popped the seed into her mouth.

“ _Oww!_ ”

She gasped, and the seed fell from her mouth.  As soon as it had touched her tongue, the sword in her right hand had let out a sharp burning sensation.  Startled, she looked down at it.  Her hand bore no burn marks, but the jewels in the golden hilt were glowing oddly.  She shook her head, nonplussed.  She started to feel like the sword was trying to tell her something, as if it was swiping through the fog in her mind like it had done earlier with the underbrush.  Clearing a path… 

The drunken pleasantness she had felt moments ago was disappearing.  Wasn’t there an old Migardian tale that she and her fellow Asgardians used to laugh at about a Greek woman who was lost in an underworld just like this, and who was tempted by this same fruit?  And upon eating it, became _trapped—_

Her mouth twisted into an angry snarl.  “ _Sorcery!_ ” she bellowed.  Within seconds, she had the boy pinned to the ground, the true edge of her sword at his throat.

“What are you doing?” cried the boy, fear spilling out from his eyes.  “I am just a child!”

“No, you are not,” she growled.

“I-I’m stuck here, alone, just like you!” the boy gasped.

“How did you get here?” she demanded, grabbing the neck of his shirt to give him a shake.

Terrified, his mouth trembled several times before answering.  “I-I… d-don’t remember!”

Her face darkened visibly.  “Not good enough.”

The muscles in her sword arm tensed.  The boy let out a desperate sob, his eyes overflowing with tears.

 _What if it was true?_ a small voice whispered in the back of her mind.  What if he really was a lost child?  Could she kill this child as easily as she had killed all the others?  Could she risk not knowing if he deserved it, like she had deemed the rest had?

Tears sprung to her eyes as feelings of doubt and regret flooded her mind.  The sword hilt burned in her grip.

“NOT. A. CHILD!” she yelled through gritted teeth and drove the sword through the boy’s midsection with a cry. 

His scream was a boy’s at first and her heart lurched, but a moment later it changed into the cry of a doomed thing.  An inhuman thing.  Black blood gushed once more upon the sword’s hilt and her hand. 

Even though the illusion was broken, this demon did not change to its true form—except for its eyes.  Before they closed, the irises turned into an ethereal yellow surrounded by a ring of red.  They peered at her, not angry or pained, but... sad.  She watched as the boy died, his jaundiced eyes never straying from her face.

This time, a chill ran up her spine.

She breathed heavily, deep shuddering breaths, trying to find some sense of calm.  But she would have no more time to herself.  The forest was coming alive.  Dark creatures were appearing all around the clearing, materializing on the dead grass on all sides of her and on the top of the stone table that was now devoid of its enchanted food.  The air was full of their fearsome shrieks and howls.  Every way she turned, she saw nightmares: dogs with three snarling heads; giant worm-like creatures with hundreds of legs that scurried along the ground with frightening speed; harpies and other ghastly winged-things that circled the air above, cawing loudly; black spiders the size of horses with eyes that glowed red; small goblin-like beings that scampered underfoot, brandishing pitchforks and severed human heads; ghostly specters that wailed and sighed; demons with the bodies of men and the heads of jackals; more children that reached out to her, crying piteously…

There was no good in hiding anymore for they knew they could not trick her again.

As she stared at the hundreds of demons that surrounded her, creatures overwrought with the desire to rip her to shreds, she started to feel an odd sense of peace.  She had always known it would come to this.  Like she had been training all her life for this fight.

Her voice was light, almost frivolous, when she addressed the horde.  “Well, come on then.”

With chilling screams and snarls, they attacked her.  And one by one, they fell at her feet.  The Odinblade cut down each creature that came near with one slash, but her aim had to be true.  The demons’ teeth and claws found her when she wasn’t fast enough to block an attack.  Soon, she was covered in blood: theirs and her own.  But the adrenaline was pulsing through her veins once more, and her thoughts turned to one thing.

_Loki.  I am coming for you._

As she pulled the blade out from the mid-section of a jackal-headed man who had bit her arm, she ducked under the swipe of a massive stone hand.  A large, copper-colored snake lashed out at her, but she blocked the strike with the sword and quickly cut off the snake’s head.  She sidestepped around the still-writhing body and felled a couple of hobgoblins that had crept up behind her, running through two at once.  She jumped back around and was immediately knocked to the ground by a stinging smack to her face—the stone hand was back, and this time, the rest of its body was too: a colossal golem with stocky arms and legs, a gaping hole for a mouth, and one glaring stone eye.  She hurried to her feet, warded off a harpy who had flown in too close, and—not knowing what would happen, but not daring to hesitate—she thrust the sword into the middle of the golem.

At first, nothing happened and she grew alarmed, worried that her sword was stuck in the rock.  But a second later, the stone around the sword started breaking apart.  First, tiny pebbles came loose, then rocks the size of her hand, then even larger stones—the golem was crumbling from the inside out.  All creatures seemed to stop their attacks to watch the stone giant collapse. 

Just for a moment, she caught her breath.

Then the demons surged towards her with a new ferocity, as if spurred by the golem’s fall.  Unafraid and with her sword casually pointed towards the ground, she let them draw near.  Then she released her fury.

She was a blur, a whirlwind of biting Asgardian steel.  The Odinblade whizzed through the air, slicing through target after target.  But more enemies were coming.  When one fell, another appeared in its place as quickly as if it had sprung up from the ground.  She was growing tired, her movements slower.  This was the part of the battle that was always the most dangerous.  Despite the angry adrenaline that still coursed through her, she knew she had to get away if she wanted to survive.

Swiftly, she glanced around.  A ring of adversaries surrounded her, held at bay by the sweeping reach of the sword.  Every so often, a demon would launch itself off of the stone table at her, and she would counter at the last moment by using their momentum to toss them over her head and into their evil brethren.  After she had done that successfully a few times, fewer demons had wanted to try it, and the tabletop was less occupied.  A plan took shape in her mind.

A giant, hairy black spider was creeping forward from the throng on her right.  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw an oversized multi-legged worm crawling under the table to her left, hoping to catch her unawares.  She paused ever so slightly, keeping her face lowered as she discreetly memorized everything around her.  Then she swung the sword in a wide arc around her body, cutting off the legs of the spider and splitting the millipede in two with the same sword stroke.  She kicked the severed spider body back into the crowd of attackers, knocking a group to the ground.  In a continuous movement and without a glance behind her, she back flipped onto the undulating millipede body and used its momentum to catapult her to the top of the table.

 _Odin’s beard!_ she thought to herself, amazed that her crazy maneuvers had worked.  But there was no time to congratulate herself for her foes were swarming around the sides of the table, snapping and grabbing at her.  She was warding them off with both the sword and a spear she had taken from a goblin when a loud screech made her look up.  The harpies were flying in closer, likely thinking that she was an easier target to reach now that she was off the ground.  She smiled slightly to herself.

A snarling ghoul began ascending the end of the table.  Looking like a decaying human body that had been brought back to life, it rushed towards her, skeletal arms outstretched, mouth agape and drooling.  She ducked the arms and the snapping teeth and, grabbing anything she could reach on it, flipped the undead thing over her hip and behind her.  It landed on the table with a sickening squish.  Quickly, she turned and saw that its neck had snapped.  She glanced up as a series of shadows fell across her face.  Two harpies were bearing down at her, their screams filling her ears.  She ducked and the first whooshed over her head.  The second one swooped in lower, but she surprised it by flipping over it instead of ducking, and it flew harmlessly underneath her.  Landing lightly, she turned, leapt after it, and carved the sword straight through a wing, cutting it clean off.  The harpy screamed in pain and flopped onto the table.  She kicked it into the crowd.

The first harpy had flown in right behind the last one, but as it saw its companion go down, it backpedaled in the air, trying to retreat—just as she had anticipated.  As it started to fly off, she grabbed its calf.  The harpy screeched and tried to shake her off, but she dug her nails into its gray skin and hung on with grim determination.  She began to rise into the air.

She was flying over the heads of the angry horde when she felt it: something was gripping her leg.  The ghoul that she thought she had defeated was back—it grasped her ankle in one rotten hand, its still-animated head lolling at an unnatural angle.  Seemingly oblivious to the extra weight, the harpy continued to fly, taking her and the ghoul with it.  Though its neck was broken, the ghoul glared crazily at her and tried snapping at her with its teeth.  She kicked at it several times in the face, but still it hung on.  The harpy was flying low over the crowd and several beasts were jumping at it, trying to latch onto the ghoul to pull her down.  She had to get the stupid thing off her.  Trying to control her rising annoyance, she swung the Odinblade at the creature, slicing a clean line straight through its wrist.  The severed ghoul body fell back towards earth.   Despite being separated from its body, the stubborn hand kept its icy hold on her leg.  Angrily, she hit the hand with the hilt of the sword until its grip loosened and it fell after the rest of its parts.  She grimaced, still feeling the phantom touch on her leg.

With the ghoul gone, her harpy-carrier shot up over the trees that lined the clearing.  Unbeknown to it, the creature was taking her directly to where she wanted to go: towards the base of Yggdrasil.  Over the tops of scraggly branches she flew, the grounded horde rushing to keep up beneath her.

Slowly, the silhouette of the world-tree appeared out of the misty darkness.  It was easily the largest thing she had ever seen, even more sizable than the metal towers that were commonly found in Midgardian cities, what humans called “skyscrapers.”  In Asgardian culture, Yggdrasil was a most holy place, so as she flew near enough to see its old, knotted fibers, her eyes grew wide with disbelief.

There were people strapped to the tree.  Thousands of them, men and women lined up side by side, bound to the trunk by their arms and legs.  They stretched up the tree as far as she could see.  Like shipwrecked sailors, their clothes were dirty and torn, and their faces were gaunt and twisted into anguished masks.  They wailed and cried and called out names or babbled nonsense, and together the sound rose to fill her ears—a horrible, relentless cacophony of lamentation.  Instantly, she knew who they were.

The inhabitants of Niflheim.  Doomed souls, spending the rest of eternity trapped to the world-tree, unable to move while any nightmare from Niflheim could draw near.  A horrible punishment, and no doubt what Hela saw fitting—to be so hopeless yet so near to the divine being that housed the worlds of the living.

She let go of the harpy and thudded to the ground near the base of the giant root.  Annoyed at its unwelcome tag-along, the harpy didn’t attack and instead continued flying, yelling curses at her as it went.  Just before it disappeared into the mist, it pointed behind her, a wicked smile on its ugly face.  She turned around.  The crowd of demons was bearing down at her, running and flying at top speed, bringing her doom.  Suddenly, a tide of weariness swept over her and with that came a break in her resolve.  She did not know how she could defeat them all.  She had been a fool to think she could come to a place where hope did not exist.

“SIF!”

At the sound of her name, she whipped back towards Yggdrasil.  She spotted the caller immediately.

He was bound twenty feet off the ground, with his arms and legs spread-eagled and ties at his wrists and ankles.  From where she stood, she could just make out that his feet were bare and his clothes were an unadorned, ratty gray tunic and pants.His black hair was lank against his head, and his skin seemed even paler than usual.  Despite the sea of crying, captive people that filled her vision and her ears, all she saw was him.  Something shuddered deep in her chest and she felt a shock of release so powerful, it was as if her lungs had been holding her breath hostage, like she hadn’t breathed since she had last seen his lifeless face.  With a heart that was lighter than it had been for years, she yelled for him.

“LOKI!”

Then a horrible feeling of pain erupted on her back.  With her attention diverted, a large, tiger-like demon had attacked her from behind, slicing several gashes down her back with its claws.

“Aaaahhhhggrrrgghhh!”

As she screamed in agony and fell forward, she heard an angry cry from above.  Loki was bellowing her name again.  She could hear him straining against his bonds.

“Sif!  I can’t get free!”

 _No worries, my love.  I’ll come to you._  

She tried to speak the words to him but all she could manage was an anguished wheeze.  The tigerbeast was circling her, growling aggressively.  Wincing, she used the sword to help her to her feet and turned to face it.  The rest of the horde had reached them but was keeping some distance away, apparently giving the two fighters some space. They must have been thinking that this demon was the one who could defeat her, and if looks had anything to do with it, then this creature certainly could: The size of one of Odin’s warhorses, its fur was black with dark red stripes, and powerful muscles rippled under the hide as it moved.  It had claws the size of daggers and a long tail with a cluster of large spikes at the tip.  As two glowing yellow eyes the size of dinner plates glared at her, the great mouth opened to reveal rows of sharp, filthy teeth.  It roared ferociously, filling the air with chilling, unearthly tones.

Sif’s back ached terribly.  Bent at the waist, she had both hands gripping the hilt of the sword as it steadied her, its tip sticking into the grass.  Her hair was in her eyes, and sweat was dripping down her back, stinging her wounds.  A continuous cloud of chilled breath puffed noticeably from her mouth.  She knew she looked like easy prey, and worse, she felt like it, too.  As the tigerbreast’s shoulder muscles started to tense for another attack, Sif summoned one last ounce of strength from somewhere deep within.

It lunged at her, and she got out of the way just in time.  Grimacing from her wounds, she stumbled as fast as she could to stand opposite the world-tree.  The tigerbeast had stopped its lunge near the base of the root and was turning to face her again.  To best it, she needed it angrier.  She raised the sword high.

“Your mother was... a house cat!” she bellowed.

Not one of her cleverer insults, she had to admit, but she was too tired to think and it did the job anyways: With an angry roar, the demon was rampaging towards her once more.  It took all her willpower to stand stock-still until the beast was but a breath away—then she dived to the side.  She landed hard and her hair whipped into her face as she looked back.  The tigerbeast had barreled straight into the demon horde.  Angrily, it leapt to its feet and started swiping its mammoth paws at anything nearby.  It hit a goblin who stumbled back into a ghoul; the ghoul then fell on a spider, and the spider subsequently bumped into a golem…  Soon, pandemonium had broken out as creature after creature turned on each other.  Sif managed a small smile and collapsed back onto the grass.

The ground had never felt so good.  She just wanted to lay there forever, both ignored by and ignoring the battle that raged behind her.  She felt her eyes closing…

“Sif!”

Her eyes snapped open, and she launched herself forwards towards Yggdrasil.  When she reached the base, she hesitated for just a moment before she started climbing the tree, using heads and shoulders as hand and foot holds.  She stuck the sword in her belt to free her other hand and continued climbing, trying to ignore the cries of sorrow from the souls she stepped on.  With every move, her sore muscles screamed in protest, and before long, her conscious mind slipped away, leaving only her movements: _grab, grab, step, step, grab, step, grab, step, grab, grab, step, step_ …

Finally, a familiar voice roused her from her mindless climb.  “Sif.”

She would’ve collapsed into his arms if he could hold her.  Instead, she climbed up over him and clung to his shoulders, her face inches from his.  He looked horrible, worse than she had ever seen him.  His sallow face had a haunted expression, like the kind people get when they’ve been in a prolonged state of pain.  Both of his eyes were bloodshot, but the right one was in an even worse condition—The lids were swollen and the lower lid hung downward showing the infected connective tissue inside.  She touched the side of his sunken face, tears welling in the corners of her eyes as she gazed upon him.

“Are you alive?” he asked her, his voice soft.

“Yes,” she answered wearily.

“How did you get here?”

She was exhausted, her energy spent.  The weight from everything that had happened was threatening to crush her.  She had to tell him why she was here.

“Loki, I’m _sorry_ ,” she breathed.

“What?”  A glimmer of confusion flickered in his hollow eyes.  “Why?”

“I gave up on you.  I gave up on us.  I broke my promise.  But—” and her eyes flashed as she felt a whisper of her old fierceness rise to the surface of her mind.  “I’m here to make things right.”

He stared at her, his bloodshot eyes widening.

Suddenly, a small, bright green serpent slithered out from behind his head and hissed at her.  Startled, she drew the sword from her belt and attacked it, slicing it in two.  The pieces flopped onto Loki’s shoulders and then fell towards the ground.  Loki watched them go.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.  “It had been dripping its poison into my eye.”  He nodded towards the sword.  “Whose blade is that?”

Sif stuck the sword back into her belt.  “The All-father gave it to me before he brought me here to find you.  I wouldn’t have made it this far without it.”

Loki’s face darkened suspiciously.  “Why would he do that?”

“Why do you think?” she said, her temper beginning to fray.  (The strength it was taking to keep her tiredness at bay was loosening her hold on her manners.)  “The same reason why I am here.”

“And why is that?” he sneered at her.

She gave him a long look, deep and measuring, full of memories and hope and love and sadness, and she knew that he understood her and that she didn’t have to say anything at all, but she spoke the words anyways because she wanted to.

“Because I love you.”

He stared at her, eyebrows flung together, shocked, confused—the most emotion she had seen on his face in a long time.  Her childish irritation, her pain, her weariness—all were dissipating.  She snorted softly and smiled at him.

“I believe the Midgardian phrase is ‘Duh, you idiot,’” she murmured, her voice light with playful exasperation.

His face was frozen, twisted in disbelief, but in his eyes she could see emotions churning below the surface—disparate worlds of thought fighting each other for dominance of his heart and his mind.  He was quiet for a long while, and she started to worry that she shouldn’t have been so lighthearted, so flippant.  But she knew she couldn’t have done more to make him understand.  And she wouldn’t have done anything less.

Slowly, subtly, his face started to relax.  “No one’s ever called me an idiot before,” he said finally, eyeing her with a side-long glance.  That was when she saw it: the ghost of a smile curling the sides of his lips.  Her eyes opened wide.

There he was, the boy she had known long ago.  She had found him. 

She sighed and then breathed in again, slow and deep.  A powerful feeling was spreading through her body like poison, but it was the opposite of poison, wondrous and warm and full of life.  It filled her heart and spread to her face, shining out of her eyes as she beamed at him.

“Now, get out of here,” he said to her.

She blinked.  “What?” she asked, taken aback.

“Leave.  Return to the land of the living.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

Swiftly, his expression changed.  “Sif, listen to me!  I don’t _want_ you here,” he snarled, his familiar aggression rearing its head.  But then, softer: “You don’t deserve to be here.”  Head bowed, he looked away.

She lifted his chin in her hand so that he would look at her.  “Where you go, I will go.  Always.”

“ _No_ ,” he growled.  “Not here.”  His expression softened again.  “Anywhere but here.”  He looked down and sniffed, his inflamed eyes blinking rapidly.  Then his head snapped up.

“HELA!”

Sounding like a man who had lost everything, he screamed the name.  “HELA!”

“What are you doing?” she cried, alarm rising in her throat.

His yells stopped suddenly, cut off like a discordant note, but still he did not answer.  He was looking past her, staring upwards over her head.  Apprehensively, her eyes followed his line of sight.

A swirling mass of darkness was appearing out of thin air in front of them, and with it came a loud, raging wind.  As their hair blew wildly about their faces and the sound deafened their ears, Sif shivered, though not from the wind.  The dark cloud before them was taking form.

First came a gleaming black headpiece whose top had a series of metal horns that curved upwards and out to the sides.  Then the darkness parted to reveal a face beneath the headpiece—a woman’s, with luminous pale skin and a dangerous-looking beauty about her, reminiscent of the harpy illusion that Sif had encountered earlier.  The darkness continued to swirl around the woman like angry black fog, and every so often, a piece of the dark cloud would part to reveal clothes that were faintly Asgardian—layers of coal-black cloth mixed with intricately-tooled leather armor and a long cape.  She floated in closer, and Sif had to stop herself from recoiling in surprise: The woman’s eyes looked like the night sky: dark, endless, and full of small pinpricks of light.

“Hela,” Loki was saying.  “Send her back.  She still lives.”

“NO!” Sif roared.  “Send up both back!”

The goddess of death hovered before them, unresponsive and unmoving.  When she finally spoke, her dark wine-colored lips did not move, yet her emotionless voice rang all around them.  "That cannot be done.” 

Sif was staring open-mouthed at the woman.  The sound of her mighty voice seemed to overpower all else: The wind had died and the demons below Yggdrasil had stopped fighting.  All of Niflheim was watching silently.

When the echo from the goddess’ words finally disappeared into the air, Sif grabbed the sword from her belt and started hacking at the bonds that held Loki’s arms.  The sword merely bounced back as if it had hit an invisible shield.

“It’s no use,” Loki told her quietly.

Angrily, Sif turned back towards Hela.  “Release him,” she demanded.

“Or you’ll do what?  I feel Odin’s magic in that blade.  But this is my realm, and his magic has no place here.”  The great voice was starting to come alive with inflection, sounding arrogant and amused.   “You may have been able to vanquish my dark pets, but you, little Asgardian, cannot do anything to me.”  Hela regarded her curiously.  “But you knew this.”

Sif swallowed then nodded.  “Yes.”

“There is no way back,” Hela’s voice boomed.

“I know.”

“So,” Hela said loftily.  “You are prepared to spend the rest of eternity here in Niflheim with Loki?”

Sif took a deep breath.

“I am prepared.”

“NO!!” 

Loki’s yell broke the silence.  He was straining against his bonds again, his eyes wild.  “I don’t want you here!” he repeated.  “I DON’T WANT YOU HERE, SIF!”

She cradled his face in her hands.  “Shh, shh, it’s okay.  _I_ want this.”

“ _Hmph_ ,” Hela tutted.  “So be it,” she intoned and a sound like a clap of thunder split the air.  The goddess was smiling, the line of her mouth curving wickedly.

“First things first,” she drawled, and her eyes became sinister slits.   “You must die.”

Sif turned towards Loki again.

“What are you doing?” he gasped at her.

She smoothed his hair lovingly and then kissed his cheek, right below his poison-damaged eye.

“Keeping my promise," she whispered.

He started to protest once more but she ignored him.  Her gaze turned back towards the otherworldly figure surrounded by darkness.  Still, the woman smiled, her eyes empty and cold.  Sif glanced down at the demon horde below.  Like dogs begging for scraps, their eyes were wide and expectant.  It was if they were waiting for something...

 _A fight_ , she realized suddenly.

If she were to die, she would go down with a fight. 

_One last fight._

Suddenly, everything seemed brighter and more intense: Her warrior instincts had kicked in, heightening her senses.  Her mind was pushing the pain from her wounds aside.  Every muscle in her body was ready.  Grasping the hilt of the Odinblade, she matched Hela’s cold stare with one of her own.

“You can have my life,” she told her, slow and fierce, “if… you can _take it!_ ”

The goddess of death blinked.  Then she smiled again, this time showing pointed teeth.  Her demonic minions below had started to holler and shift in anticipation—their savage clamor filled the air, but Sif was unafraid.  She pointed her blade at Hela. 

_I’m coming after you first._

Then she leapt off of the tree trunk, filling her lungs for her final war cry:

“HAVE AT THEE, DEMON!”

Directly towards the woman in black, she flew, with her hair swept out behind her and the Odinblade raised in her hands, shining brightly.  Again, the goddess did not move, not when Sif was almost upon her, not when the sword swung towards her pale neck, not when—

Sif landed on the ground with a thud.  The impact jarred the sword from her hand.  Her mind panicked.  She needed her weapon!  She would not make it easy for them.  Instinctively, she jumped to her feet and mindlessly stumbled after the blade.  Only then did she truly look around.

She was standing on grass, not dead, black grass but lush, green grass that was so thick it was springy to the touch.  All around her were trees, giant oaks that formed a canopy of leaves above her.  Sunlight filtered in and out of the trees, and her head snapped up to peer at the sky.  It was blue, not gray or red, and it was empty without even a single cloud.  A few feet away, something was sparkling in the grass.  She walked over to it.

It was the Odinblade, except it was small and spotless—a beautiful dagger once more.  She picked it up and stared at it, confused.  Her clothes were also clean and her body bore no wounds.  Eyebrows furrowed and mouth open, she looked around herself bewilderingly.

That was when she saw him.

He was standing with his back to her several feet away.  His clothes were no longer rags but the familiar greens and golds and blacks--the Asgardian regalia he used to favor while living.  His black hair was blowing lightly in the breeze, and he appeared to be looking questioningly down at his hands.

Silently, she ran to him, fearing that if she called his name, he’d turn and she’d find out that this was just a dream.  She threw her arms around him, pressing her face into his back.  Tears sprung to her eyes, not tears of sadness like before but tears of joy.

He was real.  And they were home.

At her embrace, he froze.  He stumbled out from her arms and slowly turned to face her.  She felt her heart start to sink.

Then he was on his knees before her, kissing her feet and crying, grasping her hands, standing up to kiss her face, embracing her tightly.

“Thank you,” he whispered into her dark hair.  “Thank you.”

As they stood there clinging together in the middle of the royal forest, an unruly wind swept over them and on its heels came a creeping cloud of gloom: Hela was walking towards them, darkening every step she took.  Sif felt Loki’s body tense.  Even in this light world, the goddess of death was an intimidating sight.  She paused before them, and in tones that were less spectral (but no less direct), she spoke.

“No living creature has come to my realm willingly.  Not even Odin himself has crossed my gates.”  She eyed the pair, that slight amused expression playing on the ethereal features of her face.  Finally, her eyes traveled over to rest on Sif.  “You have shown great courage today, Asgardian, something I have not witnessed in a long while.”

The darkness was writhing again, swirling around her body, consuming everything except for her face.

“I have erased his name from my book this time, but I cannot guarantee that it will be erased a second time.”

She looked into Loki’s eyes, a deep, penetrating stare.

“Use this time you have wisely,” she whispered.

The dark cloud vanished.  They stared at the spot where it had been for a long moment, not daring to believe what had happened.  Then the tension eased out of their bodies, first from his, then from hers, and they stepped apart.  He took her hand, and she sighed gratefully as she felt the warmth emanating from it.

“So,” Loki said lightly, looking down at her with that familiar subtle smile.  “‘Your mother was a house cat,’ huh?”

“Shut up.”

And hand in hand, they walked towards the palace.


End file.
